


the wonder of my world

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: .......ish, Character Study, Gen, In a way, Magic AU, Manchester United, team spirit au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 17:09:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11810454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: Gods, someone said once, always love the people who make them.





	the wonder of my world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> \- Borrows the idea of team spirits in players that the absolutely phenomenal [raumdeuter](http://archiveofourown.org/series/483028) created SRS GO READ IT'S BEAUTIFUL. There's _some_ vague Rivers of London references in it, but I didn't understand enough to figure it out, so I kinda made up my own shit after a while. More explanations slash rambling thoughts later.  
>  \- (Anyway, it's not really important. It's not really a magic au. Just the same old love story, the only kind I know how to write, of a boy, a game, a heart.)  
> \- Speaking of which: [photo prompt](https://68.media.tumblr.com/ec3d00c15d1dbed104a93565ad1924fe/tumblr_inline_otxcdl0bxH1t5wn43_500.jpg) (am I trying to hit all the prompts? WATCH ME)  
> \- For Sharon, the Carra- to my -ville, the most wonderful personal cheerleader, the most wonderful (TRASH) person - love you so much. <3

_Like Best, there is a special fantasia about him. - Fabio Capello_

 

Paul isn't watching the team at the final whistle. He knows the story better than most; he's lost more games than clubs have played in the league, and if the taste of disappointment is bitter it is not unfamiliar. Seventy-two. Seventy-three, now, in fairness.

So he doesn't look at the players. Instead he looks at Ryan, red striped tie, sharp suit, stood ramrod straight under the stand that bears the manager's name. Scuffing his shoe on the grass below his feet as Poyet pumps the air in celebration. They're the wrong kind of shoes, Paul thinks. Too shiny.

Ryan yanks off his tie before the post-match interview. He's tired; Paul can see that as quick as he can find a pass on the field, and for the same reason, the one you don't explain so much as understand.

"I feel flat," Ryan says. Confronted with the microphone his shoulders seem to slope now, eyes flickering back and forth, searching for something to hold on to. Like a legacy, Paul figures. Red shirts and the comfort of _Ryan Giggs, Ryan Giggs, running down the wing_ _._ He rolls his shoulders back and shrugs. "Credit to Sunderland. They created the better chances." Shakes his head, blinks, clenches his jaw and bites his lip to stop himself from doing anything else.

Paul's seen him a lot over the years. Never seen him like this.

 

 

*

 

 

They go to a pub, after. Used to go with Gary till he left; sometimes Paul still senses him even when he isn't there, like a yawing kind of gap, the smell of Old Trafford grass faint in the air. He misses Gary in the way you miss home when you leave, paints him still as a portrait of youthful exuberance and sharp angles, not the old man with the bad ankle who prayed so very hard for something he couldn't have.

Ryan pushes a pint across the table.

"On me," he says. Paul doesn't think he means only the drink.

He takes a sip nevertheless, then leans back and purses his lips, looking at Ryan. This god. The manager had called him as much the first time they'd met, floating over the ground like a cocker spaniel. Paul wonders if the manager knew - probably, he reflects, he knew everything - and whether he ever talked to Ryan about it.

"Two more games," he says instead. Can't offer anything else but the future. Which is funny, since that'd been them once. _Fergie's Fledglings leave Leeds for dead -_

Ryan nods. "Two more games," he says, and the weight of a club settles on his brow, like a heartbeat, a song.

 

 

*

 

 

This is the song: _glory, glory, Man United._

It's played, without fail, every half time. It seeps through the walls, adorned with years and photos of glittering trophies and the players who won them. It's scrawled on pavements and street signs in truncated form - _GGMU_ \- typed and hashtagged across social media. It's a constant, unyielding beat, the garish cheerfulness belying something far more raw and ragged at the edges, a broken plane and an empty team sheet.

It's in Ryan Giggs's footsteps, the one-two-lifting the ball past a defender and into the net. The gliding, dipping, studs buried in grass, so perfect you almost forget you aren't watching poetry. The way he gives everyone something different to remember: a ballet dance, twisted blood, football itself. The way he gives.

 

 

*

 

 

Gods, someone said once, always love the people who make them. Ryan had told him that years ago, when they'd both still been young and wet behind the ears. Paul hadn't known why at the time. But there'd been something wistful in Ryan's eyes, a snatch of hope or a flash of red that Paul couldn't make out.

Paul doesn't realise who Ryan _is_ and what it _means_ until later.

He'd heard of team spirit, of course, in the way every little kid who had a team heard about it. Nothing so concrete as a man, only voices and a presence that adults always struggled to explain. _You just feel_ , Uncle Patrick had said, helplessly, waving his hands around as if that would aid explanation. And then he'd taken his nephew to a game to prove it.

Stepping into a football stadium is like stepping into another world. Uncle Patrick had held his hand and dragged him through the turnstiles and suddenly Paul was _there_ , Old Trafford, fifty thousand or more pressed against each other, roaring.

Uncle Patrick said hello as they squeezed by and the men looked down at him and smiled. _Young 'un, isn't he?_ they said. _Yes, my nephew,_ Uncle Patrick replied. Paul had stared at all of them, noted the way they were wearing the same shirt, the same scarf, how they knew all the lyrics to the calypso. They screamed at exactly the same time and when United scored they jumped up and hugged each other without knowing who anyone was.

Team spirit. Paul watched the fifty thousand going mental and felt the euphoria drip through his veins, like somewhere his skin had sprung a leak and the atmosphere picked this moment to rush in. Old Trafford itself seemed to pulse with something more than love, because Paul didn't think that love alone could make so many people both incredibly happy and exceedingly miserable in the space of ninety minutes, but as he left the ground and looked back to see the words _Manchester United_ in the sky he pulsed with all of them.

Of course it wasn't Old Trafford that made him magical, though sometimes Paul likes to pretend that it was. And of course it isn't strictly magic, in the fireballs-and-mind-control sense. Paul just sees in the way Uncle Patrick just feels. A pass, an open teammate, a through-ball. He thinks of it as a talent in the way that other people can play the piano or paint a picture. Doesn't think of it at all, really, most of the time. But it helps him get picked for United and it means that one day he starts in front of the fifty thousand scarves he used to dream of.

He's only nineteen and he's only small and there're so many of them, yet the way they clap him on, like they believe, makes him feel like he could run forever. Makes him want to.

Paul thinks that this many people must surely make a god, the way Ryan predicted. And he keeps looking, but he doesn't see. Some days he thinks it must be Gary, the way he wears the crest, how he carries United in his hands. Gary laughs when he tells him and says, "I'm just one of the people."

They win their first league and Paul forgets about that. Remembers only the feel of the ribbon around his neck and the champagne dripping down his shirt. Remembers that banner in the crowd, _Mr. Hansen_ -

Remembers the way Ryan turns to him and grins, fierce in the sunshine, the shadow of Old Trafford crossing his face, a hand pressed into his shoulder like he's promising the world.

 

 

*

 

 

It takes till the Arsenal game for the penny to drop.

When Roy gets sent off and Phil hacks down Parlour, Paul blinks. He's stood in the middle of the pitch, stranded and helpless, not able to see a way out like he always does. Ninety one minutes. Paul's seen dreams crumbling before, but not like this.

Except.

Just before Bergkamp takes the penalty, he twitches his head. It's the tiniest of movements and it could mean nothing, but Paul feels something strange wash over him, and he's running forward without knowing why. He glances back with an effort and sees Ryan stood behind, already turning.

Peter smacks the ball away. It rolls straight to Paul's feet and he's clearing it, United on the counter-attack, Phil slamming into Peter all _how did you -_

The crowd swells. There's a deafening, wordless blare, prayer unmuted, treble looming large. Paul feels a bolt of energy shooting through his legs. Looks up and sees again, like the clouds have suddenly disappeared. There's a faint trace of sea breeze hanging in the air.

Then it happens.

People remember the moon landing, or the Berlin Wall coming down. Paul remembers this the same way. He's running on his own, all the Arsenal players drawn towards Ryan instead, and he's yelling _Giggsy, Giggsy,_ but even as he shouts he can feel his voice die inside him - not because Ryan can't hear, but simply because there's no need.

And that's all it is - simple. Coaches and commentators make everything so difficult when really football is only boots and running. This is only a run; these are only the greatest defenders the Premier League has ever fielded. One touch, past Viera. Past Dixon. Past Keown. Dixon, again. Years later even the manager will still remember the order in which Ryan beats them, because it isn't something you forget, watching Ryan in real life. His shoulders dipping, curved like a violin string. And it is music that he makes with his feet. Paul is scrabbling towards the goal but really he's just watching Ryan dance, rifling the ball past Seaman with some sublime, unspoken magic. It takes Ryan ten seconds to write his name into every history book and into the mind of every United fan around the world watching the telly. It takes him ten seconds to become immortal.

Paul thinks, so this is how you make gods.

 

 

*

 

 

Amidst the murmured content on the team bus back from Birmingham, Paul shifts in his seat and takes a look at the man next to him. Ryan is sleeping, mouth slightly open, dark curls pressed against the cold window. His chest, thankfully, is covered by the club crest and tie.

He's very beautiful, in a strange kind of way. Not how Becks is with his golden hair, but quieter, more pure. Like the way the sun filters through the rafters of Old Trafford and brushes the grass when no one's around.

Paul takes a quick look around. Most of them are asleep; the ones who aren't stare ahead with beatific smiles on their faces, a kind of soft satisfaction that seems to have settled through the whole bus. He looks back at Ryan and the same feeling lodges in his throat, and he thinks he understands, a little.

Ryan cracks an eye open. "Hey," he says sleepily, grinning.

Paul shakes his head. Tilts his head up, leans forward, presses his lips to Ryan's cheek, just shy of his mouth. Ryan doesn't move. Paul lingers a little, then falls back in his chair, gripping the armrest tight.

"What was that for?" Ryan asks. If anything he's smiling even wider now, although it's not the sort of shit-eating grin Paul sees all the time, but something like a little boy watching his team play for the first time.

Paul weighs up his options, wondering what to say, if there's anything to be said. He barely speaks enough for Ryan to begrudge him if he stays silent. But he feels like he owes something. So he scrunches his face up and mumbles: "Manchester United is the best club in the world."

Ryan pauses, then leans across and kisses him. Full on the lips, this time, the way he does everything. It's fleeting and then he's settled back against the window and closed his eyes like nothing happened. Paul runs a finger across his lips and feels a jolt of red through his hand, cleaving across him and into his heart. Deep. Searing. The voice of fifty thousand.

 

 

*

 

 

They don't talk about it much. It's easy to let things slide when you keep winning, and that's all they seem to do. Some days the manager is less man and more machine, hungry and sweeping up everything in his path, and it's an irresistible tide to be swept along.

It never gets out of hand, though, because - well. Ryan. Who's always there; who's always been there, Paul realises, his rise not so much a parallel as the exact same thing. _Synonymous_ is the word that crops up in the papers a lot, and Ryan sees that and laughs.

"We should tell 'em," he says, winks, like it doesn't mean anything, even though Paul knows him far too well to fall for the trick. It's Ryan whose name is first on the teamsheet, the number eleven that runs down the wing every week. Who performs miracles when the club needs them, who patches holes and fills gaps and makes things right again. The fifty thousand see him on the pitch and think: _Giggsy's here, everything is going to be okay_ . Think: _he's never going to leave, and we're always going to pick our feet up and try again._ Think: _we'll never die._

We. Manchester United Football Club. They win the league the next year, and the next, and Ryan doesn't play so much as soar. This is the song: _glory, glory -_

 

 

*

 

 

When Becks leaves, Ryan steps up to take the free kicks. The first one goes straight in. They sing his song and he opens his arms wide, welcoming them home.

When Nicky leaves, Ryan sits by himself for a while and his shoulders sag when he thinks no one's looking. Old Trafford sighs, the Champions' League goes down the M62. They don't win anything that year.

Paul drives over to his house one night in the off season, the day after Phil leaves, and rings the doorbell. Ryan grins. "Paul Scholes, initiating social contact?" he asks, opening the door wider to let him in. "Must be my lucky day."

They sit on the sofa in silence. Phil's transfer is on the news and after a while Paul turns away from the telly. "Hope Gaz is holding out all right," he says.

Ryan tilts his head at him. "He'll be fine," he says, and Paul knows what he means.

He kisses Ryan again that night, for no reason or for maybe all the reasons. It's not Ryan he's kissing, really. Ryan says _come to bed_ and Paul says nothing but crawls in under the sheets with him. It's all there is. He closes his eyes and dreams of red.

 

 

*

 

 

When Gary leaves, defined less by the way he clutches the crest than the way he limps on his ankle, Paul asks Ryan if they ought to tell him. It seems the very least they can do. A thank you more than a goodbye.

Gary finds it immensely funny. "So I've been in love with you for thirty years? Jesus, Giggsy, that's kinda weird."

Giggsy rolls his eyes and gives him a shove. "Doesn't work like that, you muppet."

"So how does it work? What can you do? Who was it before you? Can you die?"

Ryan laughs. "See, Scholesy, this is why only you knew. You know he's not asked me a single question since '99?"

"Wait - Scholesy, you mean you call yourself my best mate but you've kept this a secret for twelve fucking years?"

"The same place he's been keeping your car keys!"

Gary won't stop chattering and Ryan is giggling so hard he can barely speak and Paul sits back and listens, grinning, content on this island of his. It isn't so much a dressing room as it is home. It isn't so much working together as being a part of something greater, and though Ryan is the actual - well - whatever it is, they belong just as much.

Team spirit, and that. They'd always been a team. They'd always been _the_ team.

Gary sees him looking, smiles, hunches forward a little to put his hand over Paul's. "Don't get too comfortable," he says, winking. "I'll still ring you to complain if you fuck up."

"We won't be talking much, then," Paul shoots back, feels a pang in his heart nevertheless.

Gary smiles wider. Looks like he's going to give Paul a hug then decides against it, nods, then takes off his shirt and hangs it up on the hook for the last time. Walks out without looking back. Paul turns towards Ryan and doesn't say anything.

"I'll be here," Ryan says, knowing what he means. His voice is thick and it takes him a while to get the words out. And once they made gods. "Still."

 

 

*

 

 

When Ryan calls him up, Paul doesn't hesitate. Throws his boots in a bag, waves to Claire, drives in to Carrington. The bloke at the security gate is new but he still recognises Paul - who with the club crest on their shirt wouldn't, really - and waves him through with an almost-reverence.

It takes a while for him to adjust to seeing Ryan in a suit and tie, although Ryan grins at him. "Kind of still a uniform, if you think about it," he says. He waves Paul towards a jacket - red, with _PS_ in bright white letters above the Nike swoosh.

He puts it on and feels a pulse running through him. There's a window in the office and he tilts his head, and there's _Manchester United_ in the sky like it'd never vanished from his view. Sees, you know, without having to look.

 

 

*

 

 

Two more games.

They're sat in the office, all the old boys together again - Phil's smiling so wide Paul thinks he might explode - names on the whiteboard. Phil asks _are you thinking of putting yourself on the bench tonight_ and Ryan says _yeah._

There's something in the way he says it, too quick and short. Then he says, _I don't know_ , and Paul realises what this is about.

"Ryan," he says, so quiet that almost no one notices, Nicky and Phil both talking over him.

Ryan hears.

  


*

  


So.

Twenty four seasons. Nine hundred and sixty three games. Thirty seven trophies. One number.

Paul follows Ryan into the dressing room, even though as staff now he's not supposed to be there. Ryan's wearing his suit. His hands are in his pockets, his breath is hitched. He stands in front of his seat and looks at his kit, the white _11_ , in silence.

Half the kids who the shirts in the room belong to weren't born when he made his debut. Thin and gangly. The most talented player the manager had ever worked with, so he said. The best player Paul had ever seen.

He steps forward, nudges Ryan in the shoulder, offers him a tracksuit.

Ryan quirks his lip up a little. He takes off his clothes one by one, carefully folding them and laying them to the side, until all he's got left on are his underpants. Anyone stood almost stark naked in a room would feel vulnerable, but Ryan doesn't look it. He stands tall, his eyes closed, shoulders back, breathing; and with each breath he seems to grow larger.

"Can you hear that?" he asks.

Paul strains his ears. The fans must have heard, because they're singing Ryan's song. His name, over and over again, like a hymn. This church.

Ryan pauses, then reaches for his kit and pulls it over his head. It settles on his shoulders like he's never worn anything else. Even when he zips up the tracksuit Paul can still see the hint of red at the collar, the same promise he made all those years ago.

They walk out. The team is waiting in the tunnel, _This Is The One_ blares over the speakers, and the fans stand up in rapture. Ryan claps them as they clap him back. This is all that makes a club. These are all that make a god.

Paul doesn't remember most of the game. It comes in flashes; Wilson's first goal, the roar when Ryan begins to jog all warm and tender and nostalgic, the bright green number eleven next to the red forty-four. Ryan gets the ball and floats like he's twenty-two again. A cocker spaniel chasing paper in the wind.

 

 

*

 

 

_What young players will do, they'll try things,  they'll do things that maybe players who aren't having a good time won't try, so yeah, no hesitation to throw them in and they didn't disappoint. We've all been there. We've all been there as young players and, I mean, it was a great moment._

_Started warming up at two-nil, and then it went to two-one. No matter how many games you play, if you get a great response off the fans then it has an effect on you, gives you that extra spring in your step._

_Yeah, it was a little bit in my head that this could be the last time. But no, I just felt good. I just went on and did what I do, really. No different than any other game that I'd approached._

_No, I'd have liked to scored this season, but it wasn't to be. I'm chilled about it. There's no pressure - I would have loved to. What am I talking about? Yeah, I'd have really, really loved to._

_The roar of the crowd makes you bigger, makes you stronger, and they're cheering your name. You want to do well for the fans. You love it. You embrace it. You want the feelings to last forever._

 

 

*

 

 

"Could've put a glamour on Jakupovic or something," Paul says in the pub later. Usually a couple of fans will drop by but not tonight; everyone seems only to be watching intently, love or loss scrawled across their faces, too similar to tell which.

Ryan winks. "So could you."

"I was too far away," Paul begins to mutter, but he realises that Ryan isn't talking about the technicalities. It's always been the same with him; when he wants something, he earns it, especially if it's for himself and not the club. No shortcuts. Magic is given, not taken, and he's already had almost a perfect script.

"What now?"

"I don't know." Ryan shrugs and swirls his drink. "Someone else will come. That's how clubs work, don't they?"

"Or it'll be the seventies again."

"Better hope not, for Gary's sake. Carragher will never let him live it down."

They share a laugh and drink, but Ryan's not fooling anyone. Paul asks, "would you rather have scored and we lost?"

Ryan chuckles at that. "No," he says, and there's a lifetime in a word.

 

*****

 

 

Paul's seen a lot of things in this stadium. Seen the word  _genius_ written out for him; seen the radiance of Manchester during every league win. But this is what he remembers.

It's the last night. Ryan has a scarf around his neck, red and black, adorned with the words _United Born and Bred._ The rest of the players are doing the usual lap around the pitch that comes with the last home game, but Ryan's just standing in the middle. His boots are still on his feet. They'd been around his neck in Barcelona, when he'd hugged Paul in his suit and made him feel a little less an outsider.

He's looking at the stands. The fans on their feet, seventy thousand now, applauding the club. Applauding him. His brow is furrowed, like he's trying to get to something but it's always just out of reach.

Paul catches his eye. Ryan turns to look at him, runs his tongue over his lips, breaks into a smile. It must be the most heartbreaking smile Paul's ever seen, and he can't even explain why. Ryan presses his lips back into a line. Tilts his head, clenches his hand in a fist and lifts it up. Like he's promising the world.

He puts his hand down, nods, once. An acknowledgement. Paul doesn't know what of. He turns and opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but the word dies on his lips, and he's looking again. Eyes flickering back and forth.

He swallows, his lips turned down at the corners. Paul's thinking of every piece of magic he ever saw Ryan do and he's sure that every single person in the crowd is doing the same. The single, sublime flick with his left boot to beat Jimmy Phillips. The backheeled goal against Spurs, so ridiculously easy. A rocket of a shot against City, the kind Paul would have tried himself. Scuffing the ball twice in three minutes against Bayern, only for those two to end up in the back of the net. Arsenal, of course.

What makes a club? Love, belief, hope - and someone to attach it to, the player everyone grows up watching, whose name is instantly recognisable to the point that you don't have to mention who he plays for next. Who pours his soul into the game and hammers his heart onto the crest. You don't get that kind of player very often. United were lucky to have three.

So here. The last musketeer. He's not looking at the crowd anymore, just the middle distance. Still the thousands sing. Love, belief, hope, and memories. Ryan might never run again but Paul realises that it doesn't matter. It's that he's already run. And in a hundred years from now someone might pull up a grainy youtube video and watch the number eleven on the left wing and fall in love, all over again. The way he was meant to be loved. Ball at his feet. Red.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

This is how history begins:

Paul and his mate O'Keefe are stood on the side of the Cliff's field, watching, waiting for their turn to audition. The lads there already have United kit on and they're playing a U15s game, the kind that's quick and dirty and they're all trying to chop each other's legs off.

There's one boy who isn't like anyone else. Paul sees him immediately, the path he'll take to goal bursting bright in his head. It's an impossible path. Surely. But the boy snatches the ball from one of the blue shirts, turns, explodes down the left wing. No one can get to him; the blues scramble desperately but somehow they all fall behind, and it's like watching a video game. Someone slides in for a tackle; he launches the ball forward, stumbles over the other boy, stays on his feet, and then he has the ball again. He twists inside, transfers the ball from his right to left foot, slams it past the goalkeeper and he's still running. One hand in the air.

Paul's never been in an aeroplane, but he figures this is what flying must be like. _Wilson_ , the coach is yelling, and Wilson beams, puts his fingers on the crest as he jogs back to the halfway line.

Paul knows then exactly what's going to happen. Sees it more clear and sharp than any pass he's ever made. That years will go by and time may ravage, and maybe the boy will do stupid, indefensible things, things that are so hard to reconcile with who he is and what he stands for. Pure green of the Cliff fading into leery, expensive neon lights. Because United isn't _that_ , it's loyalty and taking care of your own, and how could -

The fans will grit their teeth and jam their fingers into their pockets and search, not knowing what they're looking for. And it's hard, a lot of the time, compromise and synthesis, explanation, understanding. I am here, because.

And in the end it's also simple.

It doesn't matter. Sometimes all you need is one thing to fall in love. In the end they will always come back, streaming through the turnstiles, sitting in the red seats underneath the steel girders, filling their hearts again. With song. With stories. With reminders. With gods you make. With the one thing that remains good and pure and true.

  


For there is this, now, always.

Number eleven.

Running down the wing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- [Scholesy has lost 72 PL games](https://www.premierleague.com/players/336/Paul-Scholes/stats)...of course I look these things up  
> \- Scholesy calls Sir Alex 'the manager' throughout his book  
> \- [EMO PIC](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2014/05/02/article-2618634-1D62096600000578-345_634x535.jpg)  
> \- [Giggsy's post-match interview v Sunderland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83YRSiiYFf8)  
> \- Giggsy has genuinely been described as ballet/blood/football - quotes [here](http://sport.bt.com/sport-football/football/ryan-giggs-at-40-best-quotes-and-tributes-to-manchester-united-legend-S11363853259718) and [here](https://arjyomitra94.wordpress.com/2015/09/20/quotes-on-ryan-giggs/)  
> \- [Gods quote](https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/z/zoranealeh399073.html) \- I found out later it's actually 'gods behave like the people who make them' but love is so much more romantic, don't you think?  
> \- Uncle Patrick was the United fan who kidnapped Scholesy and brought him to us :')))  
> \- Scholesy's 'magic' here is that he can kinda see the field and work out passes and see what's going to happen (kinda like the Hawk Eye skill from Kuroko's Basketball LISTEN I DONT WATCH ANIME but yesterday my brother was telling me about it and i was like heck thats exactly it) - am I saying that magic is the only explanation for his accuracy? yes  
> \- Someone did hold up a banner saying something like 'u can win errehthing with kids Mr Hansen' bc this was the season he said it + the season we won the double // I can't find a picture though ;-;  
> \- Giggsy's [actually holding Scholesy's shoulder](https://platform-static-files.s3.amazonaws.com/premierleague/photo/2016/05/31/ebe099bc-2273-465c-a84a-512c59b41167/man-utd-champions-1995-1996.jpg) :')  
> \- The [whole Arsenal game](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-URvo0n4iGU) is here; some lovely person has got timestamsp for everything that happened  
> \- Fun fact: when Ryan took off his shirt Scholesy almost took his off too without thinking bc he was just so In The Zone  
> \- [Giggsy's free kick](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1V3PR1P7kHI) after Becks left  
> \- Butty left before 2004/05, the first season we didn't win anything for a while............  
> \- Scholesy used to steal Gary's car keys i crey he didn't want him to go home!!!  
> \- Utd is kinda strange...I feel like three of them have as much claim to us as each other ;-;  
> \- italicised quotes all verbatim from Life of Ryan (pls to watch). him talking about young players and debuts made me emo!!!!!  
> \- Giggsy almost scored past Jakupovic  
> \- [relevant gifset](http://paulscholes.co.vu/post/100407317281/ryan-giggs-and-his-last-professional-game-23)  
> \- [Jimmy Phillips](https://youtu.be/RfJK62rCKL4?t=4m22s) / [Spurs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uyfcgan72i8) / [City](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEFLB2CVGzY)  
> \- I think Gary isn't United because he loves United too much and you can't? be something you love that much? idk  
> \- And Giggsy's rise (and fall) is mirrored so perfectly by United's rise (and fall), and the betrayal of values (expensive transfers etc), but yknow, under all this - one club.  
> \- Title from Adele's Hometown Glory, which Giggsy says is one of his [must plays](http://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/showbiz-news/ryan-giggs-reveals-ultimate-song-6368237). GO FIGURE.  
> \- Thanks for reading. <3


End file.
